


A Sonata of Its Own

by amelioratedays



Category: C-Pop
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Singer Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelioratedays/pseuds/amelioratedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Khalil figures that all the world is slightly out of tune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sonata of Its Own

**i.**  
Khalil doesn’t say much, Jam doesn’t either. So when they both sit side by side basking in the silence of unsaid thoughts, they don’t bother to start much of a conversation. Khalil doesn’t figure it’s that bad of a first impression but Fiona begs to differ. “Aren’t you afraid of silences?” She asks him later. “Not really, it’s…” Khalil searched for the correct term, fingers still pressing on metal strings, playing an array of disconnected chords while the gears in his brain turned. “It’s comfortable.” He replies, two and a half measures later.  
  
Fiona half listens, drumming incessant eighth notes on Khalil’s guitar—a tempo way too fast for the symphony he was playing. “We sound cacophonous.” He tells her, and she laughs—an octave too high, a beat too long. Khalil pretends he doesn’t notice, pretends his ears aren’t sensitive to notice buried emotions. He simply switched frets, letting the strings cut into already callused hands.  
  
  
  
 **ii.**  
He finds Jam staring at his guitar as he walks into their waiting room one day. Kohl black eyes fixated on the instrument that they would be performing in just two week. Khalil sees upturned brows and slight frowns that only stop when the other notices his presence. They wave— _no spoken greetings—_ and Khalil doesn’t fail to notice vermilion lines imprinted on the younger’s fingertips. And he definitely doesn’t fail to notice pale lips and slightly unfocused eyes.  
  
The next time Khalil runs into Jam, new cuts have already placed themselves on top of faded scars like the thickening blanket of snow outside. Leaves were no longer present on the trees and the wind has grown even stronger, whispering tales of ancient times into their ears. The snow continues to fall as practice goes on and Khalil sees worries underneath forged smiles.  
  
Fiona doesn’t forget to drape scarves and hats on him. “This is one of the biggest performances of the year, you can’t get sick.” She tells him, and he nods, hands reaching out for the cup of tea she placed on the table. The wind sings as the snow dances, but Khalil can't help but notice that everything was out of tune.  
  
  
  
 **iii.**  
Khalil doesn’t get sick, with gratitude to Fiona, but someone else does. He figures it’s a slight cold, but it’s only after the entire fiasco that he hears that the younger male was burning at 104 degrees. He doesn’t try to comfort him, doesn’t see the point in digging up a hole that the other’s already tried so hard to fill up. So he simply takes off his  _(Fiona’s_ ) scarf and wraps it around the other a good three times until he’s sure the other is warm enough to survive the night wind.  
  
“There. You won’t be cold now.”  
  
“But I have a fever.” He retorts, smile hidden by the scarf.  
  
Khalil vaguely thinks that things are slowly tuning themselves, the snow slowing down to match the hymns of the wind.  
  
Fiona doesn’t ask about the missing scarf and he takes up his guitar. He sings her  _One Night In Beijing_  while she taps beats in dissonant attempts. It’s inharmonious but he doesn’t tell her that she’s tapping beats to the wrong song.  
  
  
  
 **iv.**  
They’re sitting amidst clinking beer glasses and loud cheers, both sober among the inebriated crowd. It’s like their first meeting again.  
  
No words.

**No words.**

_No words._

Jam’s still sick and contagious, but Khalil doesn’t care—let’s the other lean onto his shoulder, eyes drooping and breath getting heavy. He pretends he’s intoxicated—water suddenly turning into alcohol in his venules as he lets his fingers linger on the younger’s palm. He sings under his breath and Jam hums along, to his song of tales long, long, long ago. Fingers intertwining, Khalil figures it’s okay to let his sanity slip away.  
  
The wind’s singing out of tune and Fiona’s still a beat too fast, but in a way, Khalil finds it all to be a sonata of its own.


End file.
